


6000 Years

by xX_sp1d3rm4n_Xx



Category: Good Omens, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 02:31:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xX_sp1d3rm4n_Xx/pseuds/xX_sp1d3rm4n_Xx
Summary: just a fic following aziraphale and crowleys antics through time, from eden to present. some made up scenes and some scenes from the show that i added upon





	6000 Years

**Author's Note:**

> yeehaw ! this is my second fic ever, i hope i’ve improved a bit from last time, and i hope everyone enjoys !! :)

4004 BC  
“I- I gave it away!” Aziraphale’s eyebrows knitted together. A flush of embarrassment made his cheeks turn a peach colour, and for a moment, the weight of Crowley’s eyes on him felt almost suffocating. He couldn’t meet the demons gaze. What must they be thinking of him now? He looked out into the vast expanse of desert before them, shifting his weight slightly. He chanced a quick glance to his left; Crowley lifted an arched eyebrow, smirking slightly. They looked down, the smile across their face ever growing. And then they laughed. It was a warm, genuine laugh, Aziraphale thought, not how he’d imagine a demon to laugh. He expected them to only laugh at you if your good deed had failed, or you had mortally injured yourself, or for some other terrible reason. And even more, in a way that would prickle the hairs on the back of your neck and send shivers down your spine. But Crowley laughed, they really laughed. And Aziraphale laughed too.

3004 BC  
The rain had started. Hard, cold droplets at first. Then, it fell, harder and harder, in torrential sheets, soaking through Aziraphale’s robes, down to his skin. The earthy ground quickly turned muddy, and it seeped into the leather of his sandals. He looked to Crowley, their eyes fixed on the Arc, frowning. The steely grey sky, churning with angry storm clouds, stretched out far behind them both. Aziraphale watched as a droplet of rain trickled down the length of Crowley’s hooked nose, coming to settle on their cupid’s bow. The demon wiped it away with the back of their hand, and turned to look at the angel standing next to them.  
“Shall we go then, before this place gets too, er, watery, I suppose?”  
“Ah,” Aziraphale cleared his throat, “yes. Yes, let’s go.”  
“South America?” Asked Crowley. Aziraphale nodded, feeling the water rise past his ankles.  
“South America.”  
Crowley took Aziraphale’s wrist in their hand, and with a pop, they had gone. 

2667 BC  
Aziraphale squirmed uncomfortably. There was sand in his shoes, and sun in his eyes. The hot sun caused two long shadows to stretch out before him. Crowley put a hand up to shield their eyes, as they both stood, watching as hundreds of people work on the base of a huge structure.  
“It’s called a pyramid. I’ve heard that the Pharaoh has been getting a bit sick of people stealing from graves.”  
“Makes sense,“ scoffed Crowley. “Build a massive triangle into the sky, that’ll really put the grave robbers off. Very threatening.”  
Aziraphale paused for a moment, and looked at Crowley. The sun caught on their hair and made it turn the colour of flames. Their yellow eyes looked almost amber.  
“Well, apparently, the Pharaoh wants his royal builders to design some traps for the inside of his pyramid, make the floor-plan rather confusing, things like that. To dissuade the robbers.”  
Crowley crossed their arms, huffing.  
“Enough about pyramids. Let’s go. The suns burning the back of my neck anyway.” They paused. “Do you know anywhere we can get some wine?” 

776 BC  
They sat, side by side, on the marble seats of the stadium. The chariot race had just began, but Crowley was too distracted to notice.  
“-Then they almost didn’t let me in! Said I looked like a woman! Don’t they know angels don’t have sexes!”  
“Well, you are wearing women’s robes. And you’re not an angel, my dear, well not anymore,” said Aziraphale, but Crowley ignored him. Their face grew red with anger. “And why shouldn’t women be let in anyway! It’s just plain idiotic! None of them would even be here if it wasn’t for women!” Aziraphale nodded, and popped an olive into his mouth. He offered one to Crowley, but the demon brushed his hand away.  
“I know what I’ll do! I’ll eat the victors crown. It’s made of celery isn’t it? I’ll eat it, right in front of them!” Crowley had stood up by now, waving their hands around frantically in the air.  
“Crowley, sit down!” Aziraphale whispered, eyes widening. But Crowley wouldn’t, and they began to attract some rather annoyed attention from the people around them. Before long, Aziraphale was dragging Crowley away by the chiton, from a very tall, and very angry looking Spartan, while Crowley continued to threaten him with their stephane. And, despite some desperate bargaining from Aziraphale, the pair were banned from the Olympic Games for life, which, to say the least, would be a very long time. 

41 AD  
Oysters. Who would have thought, after eight years, they would be catching up over oysters? Aziraphale watched as the bowl of seafood was set down between he and Crowley.  
“Well this looks scrummy,” Aziraphale said, scooping oysters onto his plate.  
“Scrummy?” said Crowley, taking a sip of wine and raising an eyebrow.  
Aziraphale smiled, linking his fingers together in front of his stomach.  
“Yes, I do believe that is what I said, my dear.”  
Crowley laughed, and pushed their sunglasses back up the bridge of their nose.  
“I’ve been meaning to ask, Crowley. You didn’t wear glasses before?”  
“They’re sunglasses. I invented them.”  
“Oh?” Aziraphale questioned.  
“Eyes were putting people off,” they said, taking another mouthful of wine.  
“Well, I for one think they’re lovely.”  
Crowley smiled, revealing perfectly white, pointed incisors. They weren’t quite sure if Aziraphale was talking about their sunglasses, or their eyes. With long fingers they picked up an oyster.  
“You still haven’t explained what scrummy means.“ 

793 AD  
“These viking fellows, what do you make of them?” Crowley leaned casually on the doorframe, twisting an apple from its stalk. Aziraphale thought for a moment, absentmindedly twirling his quill.  
“I think, although they can be quite violent- I mean they did threaten to burn down the monastery last week- I think they’ll bring some good to Britain. It has been a bit gloomy as of late, since those lovely Roman fellows left.”  
“I think they’re utterly barbaric.” Crowley sauntered forwards, setting the apple down on Aziraphale’s desk.  
“Well, I thought they’d be right up your street. All the burning and killing and-“ He trailed off, suddenly remembering something important, and scribbling it down on his parchment.  
“There’s enough of that in Hell,” Crowley muttered, sitting down on the corner of the desk. Aziraphale looked up, meeting Crowley’s eyes. They paused.  
“You have ink on your cheek, angel.”  
Aziraphale looked down at his hands, which were smudged with ink. He was conscious of Crowley moving closer, but still flinched, as he felt Crowley brush away the smudge on his cheek.  
“I suppose we’ll have to find out. About the Vikings, I mean. Whether they’ll do some good or not,” Crowley said, standing up.  
“Mmh,” was all Aziraphale could manage. He watched as Crowley sauntered away, and a deep flush of pink appeared over his cheeks. 

1347  
Crowley was right, the fourteenth century really was awful. The food was terrible, the weather was even worse, and, Aziraphale supposed, the plague was bad too. He caught it again last week and had to perform another miracle to cure himself. He had planned to meet Crowley to discuss a temptation that had to be performed before the plague had started. Since then, however, both had been overwhelmed with duties to perform, as instructed by their respective head offices. Aziraphale had been doing rather a lot of blessings as of late.  
Church bells chimed in the distance. Crowley was late, more so than usual. And Aziraphale’s stomach began to churn. What if Crowley has gotten the plague as well? Could they just miracle themselves better, like he could? Would Hell care? After all, Aziraphale assumed they were the ones behind all this plague business. Then the trees rustled behind Aziraphale, causing him to look sharply over his shoulder. Crowley stumbled out from the bushes, covered in a lot of nasty looking scratches. Their tunic was covered in dirt, and were those feathers in their hair? They lurched forward, looking pallid, and practically fell into Aziraphale’s arms.  
Aziraphale was lost for words at first. What had happened?  
He tried to talk, but the words shrivelled up and died in his throat. All he managed to choke out was “Are you okay?” He could feel Crowley heaving for breath in his arms.  
“What do you mean ‘am I okay?’ Of course I’m okay, I’m here aren’t I?” But there was no malice in their voice. It wavered, hoarse and dangerously close to breaking. Crowley’s grip around Aziraphale tightened, as they continued to gasp for breath. Their hair tickled the side of Aziraphale’s cheek. He tried again, his voice stronger this time, but still not entirely steady.  
“Crowley, please, tell me what’s wrong.” Crowley pressed their face into the side of Aziraphale’s neck.  
“I was attacked,” they murmured.  
“Attacked?”  
“Yeah,” Crowley’s voice was muffled, “Attacked by a chicken.” 

1601  
Aziraphale hurried after Crowley, only just catching the wooden door before it could swing shut.  
“You can’t just walk out on Hamlet!” Aziraphale whispered angrily.  
“Why not?” Crowley retorted. “You just did.”  
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it!” Crowley turned around to face Aziraphale, crossing their arms.  
“What do you mean then?”  
Aziraphale stuttered, trying to force out the words, but they wouldn’t come.  
Crowley started again, “Scotland. Next week. What else is there to discuss?” They turned sharply to leave. Then, all the words tumbled from Aziraphale’s mouth at once, his voice rising dangerously with each remark.  
“Why are you so tetchy all of a sudden! You were perfectly fine five minutes ago! For heavens sake Crowley, I mean really, you haven’t been yourself for months! And I mean properly yourself-”  
Crowley laughed, curtly and bitterly, cutting off Aziraphale’s tirade. Aziraphale had never seen them act like this before, and it unsettled him. Crowley caught his eye, but Aziraphale looked away quickly. He couldn’t hold their gaze, or, he felt, it might penetrate right through his soul. Crowley let out a long and laboured sigh, pausing a moment to gather their thoughts.  
“I- Aziraphale, look- Oh, for God’s sake, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” They pinched the bridge of their nose. “They’ve summoned me down there more times than I can count. Won’t stop banging on about beheadings, and hangings, and burnings, and floggings, and every other awful punishment the bastards up here can think of. And, they think it’s my idea! I mean, really, who can think up stuff like that. Not me, for one. What’s wrong with a bit of good, old fashioned-“ Aziraphale took a breath, and grasped Crowley’s hand, hoping they wouldn’t feel how much his was shaking. He might have been getting slowly used to Crowley touching him, or brushing past him, or being more friendly than anything he’d even dream to see in Heaven, but he’d never dared to do anything like this before.  
“All you had to do, was tell me, my dear.” Crowley softened, relaxing properly for the first time in months. They smiled, and Aziraphale spoke again.  
“When I return from Scotland, we’ll go and see another play. Not a gloomy one, something funny. A Midsummer Nights Dream, perhaps.” Crowley nodded, and smiled even wider. They both began to walk from the theatre, Aziraphale offering them the last of his grapes.  
“Thank you, angel,” Crowley said. “And I like the ruff, by the way. Suits you” 

1793  
“Crepes it is then!” Crowley took Aziraphale by the arm, practically pulling him from the cell. Aziraphale laughed. He’d never seen Crowley quite so excited about food before. They passed by a lot of confused looking French revolutionaries, not caring to hide their laughter. After all, Aziraphale had almost been beheaded.  
“If it wasn’t for me, angel, you would have been discorporated a thousand times already.”  
Aziraphale shook his head, smiling. “I do think that’s rather a large exaggeration, my dear.”  
“Still, a lot of paperwork!” Finally, they reached the street. Crowley had made sure to take them out of the back exit, so they could see the moon shining through a particularly intricate archway. And to avoid the baskets of aristocrat heads. Their shoes clacked on the stone paved ground, audible over the hum of the Paris street below them. Across the horizon, hundreds of pinpricks of golden light illuminated the deep blue silhouettes of far away buildings.  
“Look, that over there’s the Notre Dame. And there’s La Sainte-Chapelle, and over there, that’s La Sorbonne!” Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s finger flittered across the horizon, pointing out all of the most intricate silhouettes. He looked to Crowley, their face aglow with golden light.  
“It really is beautiful.” He said, forgetting completely for a moment about the crepes. 

1890  
Aziraphale’s footsteps echoed loudly. He had practically ran to Crowley’s house. Or what he thought was Crowley’s house. They had definitely lived here in 1801. That was the last time Aziraphale had heard from them, apart from in ‘32, when all 15 of the letters he had send up until then were sent back with a note thanking Aziraphale for his concern, but reminding him that sleep was an important activity for demons. Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure of the validity of the latter comment.  
“Really Crowley, I’ve sent you 47 letters and you haven’t replied to any! If you aren’t going to write back, well, l’m going to come and tell you myself!” He rapped a knuckle on the smooth, varnished wood of Crowley’s bedroom door, before opening it wide and striding inside. What he saw almost made him drop what he was carrying. He peered into the darkness, to see Crowley laying motionless on their bed, back to the door, red hair spread out like a fan on their pillow. Oh, goodness. Aziraphale’s mind raced. This was why they hadn’t replied. They were... dead?! Then, Crowley rolled over, propping themselves up on an elbow, causing Aziraphale to almost drop what he was carrying for the second time that evening.  
“What’s the matter with you? Seen a ghost?” Crowley’s voice was heavy with sleep. They blinked a few times, and sat up, yawning.  
“I thought you were dead.” Aziraphale swallowed hard.  
“Oh shut up, you silly old angel. Of course I’m not dead! I was asleep!”  
“Asleep for a century!”  
“A century? Oh...” Crowley rubbed the back of their neck. “What did I miss?”  
Aziraphale shut the door behind him, slightly annoyed at the demon, but the irritation quickly melted away once he had lit the candles in Crowley’s room. He could finally see Crowley properly, sitting up against the headboard. He had missed them.  
Crowley’s hair had grown, almost down to their waist, and it tumbled over their shoulders in messy curls. Their nightgown was creased and they had deep purple shadows under their eyes. They were dreadfully pale, almost translucent.  
“My dear, you look like you’ve been pulled straight from the pages of ‘The Vampyre’.”  
“And that is..?” Crowley raised and eyebrow.  
“Oh, ah, 1819, I think. You would have been asleep. Never mind. There’s something more important I need to talk to you about, and it’s really quite convenient you woke up when you did.”  
“I think you’re forgetting that fact that you did just storm into my bedroom, so you could start shouting at me about... letters?”  
Aziraphale blushed. “I can only apologise, my dear. I just hadn’t heard from you in so long. And, I suppose, I rushed over here in such a hurry, I lost all my manners on the way. I hope you can forgive me.”  
Crowley nodded slowly, before breaking out into laugh.  
“Of course I can. Now what was it you wanted to tell me?”

“Of course you won’t know who Wilde is, but take it from me, he’s quite the gentleman. We had lunch together not too long ago. Anyway, a brilliant play write, we really must go to see one of his plays sometime. I heard he’s writing a new one now!” The words tumbled out of Aziraphale’s mouth at an impressive speed. Crowley hung onto every one. Aziraphale took a breath, and continued.  
“Anyhow, Wilde has just published his debut novel, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’, and I must say he really hit the hammer on the nail!” He produced a copy, (first edition, signed) from the bundle of paper and books in his arms, presenting it to Crowley with a flourish, beaming.  
“Well what are you doing still standing up there? Sit down next to me so we can read it,” said Crowley, patting the bedsheet beside them. “And it’s ‘hit the nail on the head’, angel.” 

1926  
Aziraphale swirled his glass of wine, hiding away in the dark corner of the party he had been invited to, by one, Miss Agatha. He supposed the invitation had been posted through his letterbox by mistake, as he had never so much as met an Agatha before in life, but decided to attend anyway. He wished he hadn’t. The music was raucous, and deafeningly lively. The wine was awfully vinegary, the type that was drunk only to get hungover. He put his glass down on the bookshelf he’d been trying to disappear into for the past half an hour, deciding that it really was time to leave. And with that, he navigated through the throng of people, a task punctuated with countless shouted ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘sorry’s’. There was even a moment when one, rather volatile young gentleman, in the most enormous ruff and blue polka dotted waistcoat almost made him trip, causing a glassful of wine to be spilt down the length his sleeve.  
Finally, the door was in sight, and he would be free of the stiflingly hot, and tumultuously loud party. Before he could make his getaway, however, Aziraphale heard someone shouting his name from behind him.  
“Aziraphale! Aziraphale is that you?” He looked over his shoulder.  
“Crowley?” The demon was pushing past drunk partygoers left and right, battling their way towards Aziraphale.  
“You’ve cut your hair,” said Aziraphale  
“What? Oh yeah, I have,” Crowley said, reaching up to confirm it to be true. “Bit spur of the moment, inspired by Marlene Dietrich, I think. Has it really been that long?” Aziraphale nodded.  
“Well, anyway, I’m glad finally managed to I find you. Isn’t this just great! The music is brilliant, and the champagne is even better!” Crowley said, gesturing with a half empty glass.  
“Er, not really my scene. I was just leaving actually.” Aziraphale said, stepping backwards to avoid being splashed by Crowley’s champagne.  
“Oh, already? That’s a shame. I was enjoying myself.” And with that, Crowley linked arms with Aziraphale, and headed for the door. They pushed it open, and a rush of cold air hit them both. 

“You didn’t have to leave, you know, if you were enjoying yourself.” Aziraphale looked to Crowley, noticing them shiver.  
“Oh don’t be silly. I’d been trying to find you all night- I got dear old Agatha to invite you, after all- and it was lucky I caught you when I did.”  
“Well I suppose it was, a few more minutes and you would have missed m- You got Agatha to invite me?!” Crowley nodded, shivering again, but nevertheless, breaking into a smile.  
“Oh, come here,” Aziraphale said, unlinking their arms, and taking off his coat to give to Crowley. “That dress must provide no warmth at all.” Crowley took the coat gratefully, not minding the wine stain on one arm.  
“I was thinking of getting a car,” they said. “Maybe a Ford or a Rolls Royce. Then I wouldn’t be caught out in the cold like this.”  
“It’s a good thing I just happened to have a spare coat, my dear,” Aziraphale said, causing Crowley to laugh. Then after a pause, he continued. “What about a Bentley?” 

1967  
Rumours travelled fast in Soho. A whisper soon turned into a murmur, which in turn, transformed into a not-so-quiet buzz, that wormed its way to Aziraphale. And this rumour was bad. A certain Anthony J Crowley type of bad.  
When Aziraphale first overheard two patrons of his bookshop discussing how someone was planning to rob a church, he just knew that only one person could be that reckless. In fact, he could have bet 100 to one on who it was. And he would have won his stakes back, and then some. With some more not very subtle overhearing, a little pointed question asking, and one very regretful bribe, Aziraphale was able to work out when and where this great scheme of Crowley’s was to take place. And, by God, he would make sure it didn’t happen. 

He checked his watch, for the fourth time in the last 15 minutes. He had to get the timing just right, or else we would be left sitting in exhaust fumes. He checked, double checked, and then triple checked the flask cap was screwed on securely, and really hoped he wouldn’t regret this. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was sitting in the passenger side seat of Crowley’s Bentley. Crowley looked vaguely nonplussed to see him sitting there. Almost as if they had anticipated it to happen, but didn’t quite believe it would.  
Before Aziraphale knew what he was doing, he had reached into his jacket and was handing the flask to Crowley. A million and one awful thoughts ran through his head, mainly, whether Crowley’s hand burst into flames if they took hold of the flask. It didn’t. They looked just as surprised as Aziraphale.  
They exchanged a few brief words. But when Crowley asked if they could give him a lift, ‘anywhere he wanted to go’, Aziraphale paused. It had all amounted to this moment. He wondered what Crowley was thinking. Over 5000 years, that’s how long they’d known each other. 5000 years of (not really) secret meetings. 5000 years of temptations, and miracles. 5000 years of friendship. And Aziraphale had just given his closest friend something that could kill them in the blink of an eye. He said the first excuse that came to mind.  
“You go too fast for me Crowley.”  
And then Aziraphale was opening the car door, and getting out, and shutting it behind himself. He let himself breathe, for the first time in quite a few minutes. 

1983  
His hands shook as he fumbled with the lock. Aziraphale pulled down the the blinds on the bookshops door. He stumbled from the dark bookshop, pitching forward towards the door of the back room. The amounting pressure in his head made it feel as though it were in a vice, and tears threatened to make themselves known. He slammed the door behind him, finally letting go of his rapidly disintegrating composure. He let out an ugly sob, which sent stabs of pain shooting through his head.  
“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s concerned voice pierced the silence, causing the angel to jolt backwards.  
“What on Earth are you doing here?” Aziraphale’s voice was bitter, thick with tears, and muffled by his hands, which were desperately trying to hide his face from Crowley.  
“The, uh, window was open.” They paused. “Never mind that. What’s wrong?” Crowley had never seen Aziraphale like this before. They made to stand up, to move towards Aziraphale to comfort him. But Aziraphale turned away. Crowley’s eyebrows knitted together in concern.  
Aziraphale bit down on his lip, hard enough to make it bleed. Everything inside him was screaming for him not to cry. Not now. Not in front of Crowley.  
“Nothing’s wrong, I-“ But he couldn’t finish the sentence. It was a lie. A painfully obvious lie. Both of them could see that. He collapsed onto the sofa, just as his legs were about to give way. And then the tears came. Hot, fast tears that left red streaks down his cheeks, that caused him to choke for breath, that made him shake violently. And Crowley, for the first time in their life, didn’t know what to do. 

“They hate me.” Aziraphale’s voice trembled.  
“Who?”  
“Upstairs. I know they do. I’m an awful angel, and it’s all one big facade.” His voice had lowered to a whisper, but he still managed to spit out the next remark with so much hatred, it scared Crowley. “I deserve to fall.”  
Crowley was shellshocked, and words failed them for a few excruciatingly long seconds. Then, they burst out from Crowley’s mouth.  
“Don’t say that, Aziraphale! Please, God, don’t say that! Never say that. You of all people would never, ever deserve that. And, even if they did hate you, who cares? You’re better than Gabriel, and Michael, and every single other bastard lazing about in Heaven combined. And you’re not just any angel, you’re the Principality Aziraphale! Guardian of the Eastern Gate!” Crowley squeezed his shoulder encouragingly.  
Aziraphale peeked between his fingers, to see Crowley grinning at him, blurred by tears. It was a wobbly, hopeful grin, one that was laced with hope that they’d said the right thing. And they had. Aziraphale laughed, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his shirtsleeve.  
“Thank you, Crowley. Really.”  
They sat on the sofa, in contented silence, only broken by an occasional sniff from Aziraphale. Then, Crowley stood up.  
“I think it’s time for a cup of tea.”  
“Oh, my dear, I think it’s time for more than a cup of tea. How about some Châteauneuf-du-pape?” 

The moon shone through a crack in the curtains. It had been shining steadily for the past three hours, while Aziraphale and Crowley had sat drinking almost a full crate of wine. They laughed, and talked, and laughed some more, until Crowley paused.  
“I know how you feel. About Heaven. I feel the same about Hell. Every time I go down there, I feel like i’m suffocating. Like a great big weight is pressing down on my chest, and no one will help me. And it’s so dark. So, so dark.” They leant their head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and sighed.  
“When I go up there,” Aziraphale began softly, “It feels as though I’m in the middle of an ocean. There’s nothing for miles, apart from the empty walls, and the empty floors, and the empty windows. And I’m trying to swim, but I’m floundering, and I’m gasping for air. But I keep swallowing mouthfuls of water. And I can feel it, filling up my lungs. And just when I’m about to drown, they come, and they laugh at me.” Aziraphale laced their fingers together. He looked down at Crowley’s hand in his, at their black painted nails, and the silver rings on their long pale fingers. Their hands fitted together perfectly, like a jigsaw.  
“But then I come up for breath. I stop panicking. I look at the others, and I almost want to laugh back. Because I remember that before too long, I’ll be back down here. Back in the bookshop. Back here with you.” 

2014  
They had been watching over Warlock for a year by now. Watching him grow up into, what they hoped would be, a very normal child. And so far, so normal. 

Aziraphale enjoyed the gardening. Of course, Crowley was the more green-fingered of the two, but they had been adamant that they should be boys nanny. Something about plants not being able to grow better, and Sainsbury’s water misters, and... shouting? And as Crowley had reminded Aziraphale, they were the one who had the hips for a pencil skirt. So it was decided, Aziraphale would have to be the gardener. He didn’t mind though, it would give him the chance to learn some more about companion planting. And if he had completed all that was to be done each day, the Dowlings let him spend the afternoon doing what he pleased. Sometimes, he would feed the pigeons, and sometimes he would let Rover race around on the lawn. But what he enjoyed the most was tending to the window boxes. He had told Mrs Dowling that window boxes were of utmost importance if you wanted to bring colour to the garden, but really, it just gave him an excuse to watch in on Warlock’s afternoon lessons. Today, Crowley was teaching the boy the importance of burning ants with magnifying glasses. But, much like every other spare afternoon, Aziraphale couldn’t care less about whatever demonic ideas Crowley was planting in the boys mind. Or, for that matter, the Petunia he had just managed to squash. He watched as Crowley tapped on the blackboard with one perfectly manicured nail, as they made a note beside one particularly nasty looking chalk diagram, in tall, looping handwriting. He watched as Crowley smiled, lips adorned with a deep, red coloured lipstick. Crowley had worn lipstick before, in the 20s, and again in the 80s (when they went through a goth phase), but Aziraphale definitely thought this colour suited them more. It reminded him of roses, and red leather bound books, and wine. At that moment, Crowley looked up, catching Aziraphale’s eyes. They winked, before adjusting their sunglasses, and returning to the blackboard.  
And suddenly, Aziraphale remembered he had pigeons to feed. 

2019  
The clink of champagne flutes, and of cutlery on fine china, and the pleasant melodies drifting from the piano occupied the air. And below, delicious looking sandwiches, delicately prepared pastries, and a pot of warm fruit tea occupied the table. And an angel and a demon, sat side by side, occupying two chairs in the middle of the Ritz. A wave of content washed over over them both. Despite facing Armageddon in the face, and almost losing everything he loved the most in the world, Crowley were still beside Aziraphale, as always. It was as it had always been, for 6000 years. He could smell the faint scent of Hellfire on Crowley’s skin, and in their hair. But Aziraphale didn’t mind. He had Crowley, and Crowley had him. And that was all that mattered. The only thing Aziraphale would have wished for in that moment, would be to have another 6000 years, just like these ones, right next to his best friend.  
“To the world.”


End file.
